Roaches don't Die
by Light's Panties
Summary: You're pretty sure that significant things only happen when there's one bullet. - T for Language, Character Death.


**Wow I write some shit**

**Probably shouldn't ship this but w/e at least I'm writing again**

**Enjoy!**

**Roaches don't Die**

You can let yourself get hit by whatever shit decides to come flying your way, and that makes you stop giving a crap about anything else. Mortar throws shrapnel and dirt at you, the pain's gonna rush through you like a power surge. From where it hits, there's gonna be this _huge_ wave of pain. It'll feel like a volcano just erupted and the lava spreads throughout the rest of you. You're not going to care whether or not someone's dragging you away from gunfire, you're not going to care if they get what they want, you're just not going to care. The only thing you're going to give a shit about? The pain. And how to stop it.

Maybe that's a bit vague. I mean, _everyone _gets hit by mortars, right? Or at least, everyone's in pain at _some_ point in their lives. But what about when you're in the favela, and there's militia spitting gunfire at you from every direction and civilians running every which way – it's hell. For them, for you. And then in the rain of bullets, your men get gunned down. Ripped apart by storms of metal – one bullet brought them there, and dozens are gonna take them away. And then you have to keep running. That one damn bullet. One gun shot that bullet, one man fired that gun and one operation put that man in play. You'll catch him, of course. You followed the bullet to the right man, and you'll get him. It'll cost a few lives, mind you, but you'll get him. One man for one bullet for one gun for one man for one operation. For one war. He'll look you in the eyes when you get the information you want.

"We got him, mate." He'll say. He's staring right into your soul, and you can't see past his fucking reflective glasses.

You'll shrug, because you don't know what to say. You can't really give shit to someone who ranks above you, can you? You'll know what you want to say, though. You want to ask him how the hell he can be happy about this when it's cost the lives of your men. You glance over to the Captain, and wonder if he's happy about it. You know what happened with him in Azerbaijan. You know what happened to his partners in Azerbaijan. One bullet. Everything that really matters is about one bullet. It's never a hailstorm of bullets like the ones that took down your _comrades_. It wasn't an entire magazine sprayed over a square metre that blew off Zakhaev's arm in Pripyat (God knows you've heard that story recounted second-hand enough times). It wasn't even the spattered shells and civilian corpses in the airport that started the war. It was Makarov's shot. Makarov's message. Makarov's single bullet that you followed all the way to Brazil. It's so surreal that you'll start to wish that you're back in fucking training. It beats dangling off of a Pave Low until someone decides to help you up.

"He really is a Roach, my friend!" The Russian laughs when you stumble into the helicopter. "He'll survive anything!"

You'll hope to God that you _can_ survive anything.

"You alright?" You still won't be able to see past those stupid glasses, so you just shrug. You're going to be doing a lot of shrugging from here on out.

"I'm sorry about the guys, too." He'll mumble, when everyone else is conversing about something else – the next mission, the fact that the Captain called in some Russian aircraft collector on a _payphone_, whatever – and he'll say it so only you can hear him. "It doesn't seem worth it right now, but it better bloody be." He'll add grudgingly.

What can you say to that? You _do_ agree with him, that it doesn't seem worth it so you just nod. You never really know what to say these days. Everyone else spends most of their time being so damn casual, and you just can't do that. You can't puff on a fag and then stretch and fling the ashes over the edge of the chasm like you're just calmly dropping it into a deeper-than-usual ashtray. You're just seeing everything for what it is – It's war. It's murder. It's a massacre. It isn't just a job. You can try and pretend when you're changing into the scuba gear, like you're going diving when you're on holiday.

"So you ever taken out a guy underwater?" Someone asks, being much less than helpful.

You ignore him.

"Hey, Roach." Damn, he's finally taken the glasses off. You suppose that it's hard to swim in icy-cold water with sunglasses on. "You doin' alright?"

You shrug. _Again_. "Yeah." You mumble eventually, after waiting a minute or two.

"Listen mate, once we get Makarov, we're home free." You think you can see a hint of a smirk underneath that morbid mask. "War over, we'll probably get some cash, I'll buy you a beer when we get back home, yeah?"

"Yeah." You can't help but grin a little. There you are, talking about getting a beer with a frie- _your lieutenant_, and you're about to storm an oil rig teeming with hostages. No big deal, no pressure. You can do this for a beer, right? It seems a lot less pressure than saying you're doing this to avenge the fallen soldiers.

"Hell, maybe I'll even buy you dinner as well."

Okay, now he's making fun of you. You decide to ignore him and wander off to find the rest of your scuba gear, trying not to think about getting a candlelit table for two with a guy who doesn't think twice about torturing someone.

Can cockroaches drown?

Now, you know that wasn't much of a mission. For one thing, nobody died. There wasn't a single bullet which changed the course of everything – it went exactly to plan. Ghost doesn't get on the same helicopter as you. He stays crouched on the oil rig, still pointing his damn gun at nothing. He's going into the Gulag with you, but you'd rather he was on the same helicopter. Maybe you'd be able to negotiate a movie with the dinner.

Oh stop it. You can't be casual in a situation like this. It didn't work with the scuba gear, and now you've got to take out a Gulag. Or infiltrate one. For one prisoner. One man. The one bullet led us to one man who led us to _another_ man. The man Makarov hates most. And you've got the damn Navy trying to help. Oh yeah, practically downing your chopper. _Really_ helpful. One man in a Gulag doesn't mean a lot to the Navy. Of course it doesn't – but how much can one _Gulag_ mean? It's the usual shit, really. You shoot things up a bit and Ghost completely fucks up when he's trying to open security doors.

Oh, and then you get punched in the face by the Captain's old buddy.

Soap, that's what they called MacTavish. That's what he used to be. You can't help but wonder if Price had a nickname, too. He doesn't stop to apologise for giving you a slight nosebleed, but he makes up for it when a fairly large chunk of concrete lands on you. You got the wind knocked out of you, but you pretend to yourself that you're not saying thanks out of principle. Part of you kind of wants to thank him when you land a little off-target with your parachute, but you don't. It's easier not to talk on missions. _Much_ easier.

You've never really been _that_ good at the whole sneaking thing. One shot, one kill. There's just something about it that you can't stomach. It's easier to spray magazine after magazine into the fray. At least they let you have a go with the UAVs. This time, there isn't one bullet, oh no. This time, there's one warhead.

"_CODE BLACK!"_ Ghost screams. The rest of you stop in awe. Price is a _nutcase_. You're not _entirely_ sure what Price's play is, but you're pretty sure that he's trying to knock out the power over in the US to give them the advantage. Hinds might as well be Satan's preferred method of air transport, so you suppose that it makes sense in a twisted kind of way.

They managed to take back the White House because of Price.

He's a brilliant kind of nutcase, you guess. You're pretty glad to have him on your side.

"Just this one more mission, bug." He says, doing that think where you can kind of see him smile. He hands you a gun. "Spray bullets like you always do!"

"Don't." You grunt, taking the gun.

He knows something is wrong. Of course it is. You're going to infiltrate a safe house, everything could go wrong. You want to be a hero like _all_ the soldiers do, but something's not right about this.

"Why'd you want to take the safe house with me?" You ask, grabbing your knife and pistol. "Why not the boneyard?"

Ghost laughs. "Roaches don't die, do they? I figure I've got as good a chance as any if I stick with you, mate!"

Yeah, like Meat and the others did? Something just feels off. Ghost can tell. He can always tell when there's something wrong with you.

"C'mon, mate." He sets his gun down and puts his arm around you, which isn't exactly how a guy of his ranking would behave to a guy of yours. "It'll be fine. We'll get Makarov. I'm not bloody letting anything happen to you."

You decide to believe him. Or, _try_ to believe him. It's pretty hard to believe anything in the 141. They tell you that things are gonna be fine, and then the next thing you know you're racing away from a whole base-full of Russians on snowmobiles. They tell you that you're gonna capture Alex the Red, and you end up losing a few friends and they act like it was worth it. Then they tell you that you're gonna extract the man Makarov hates the most, and you end up watching Zakhaev's attempted assassin launch a Russian nuke over to America. Yeah, everything's gonna be fine.

"You've said about three sentences since we started trying to get Makarov." Ghost picks up his gun again. "You'd better have a decent conversation with me when I take you out, mate."

"You'd better buy dessert as well." Wow, did you actually manage a bit of sarcasm?

Ghost gives you a pat on the back before you guys set out. And it goes better than you expected, you suppose. You have to dodge mines and an ambush, but you get the job done. Take out the decoy trucks, and Makarov isn't there. Set up the DSM. This isn't going to go well, you just know it. You look over at Ghost, positioning himself by the window. He said he wouldn't let anything happen to you, so you've got to hope for the best.

Can Ultranationalists kill a cockroach?

More men down. Ozone, Scarecrow. They're shot right in front of your eyes, and you couldn't save them fast enough. There's nothing quite like that, watching your friends die in front of you. You couldn't protect them because you had to protect the DSM. You chance a look over to where Ghost is. He's alright. Still alive, anyway. But you have to focus. Keep firing. None of these bullets seem particularly fate-changing, so that takes the edge off at least. Shepherd had better give you some kind of compensation for this, and more than just a dinner with Ghost.

And then just like that, it's time for you to go. You grab the DSM and high-tail it out of there. The place is being overwhelmed. They're like locusts. _Like cockroaches_. There are still more of them than you can count between you and the LZ. You don't know where Ghost is, but you can't risk going to look for him. You want to, believe me, you're gonna want to look for him more than _anything_, but you have to get the DSM to Shepherd. That DSM is more important than any of your lives – you're expendable, but the DSM isn't. One DSM, dozens of men. Hundreds of lives for one. That one man. You spray bullets ahead of you, knocking a few Russians out of your way. And you run. Captain MacTavish – _Soap_, he made comments on your speed once or twice and _damn it_ you wish you'd trained harder. Every step is agonisingly slow. Explosions ring in your ears and dirt flies around you, casting rocks and mud and blood into the air. You need to get to the LZ. As in, you _really_ need to get to the LZ.

Nope, wait, that isn't going to happen.

And that brings me back to the mortar. It doesn't land right on top of you – obviously – but it hits close enough to tear you a new one. You're down. You stop giving a shit about the DSM, because the only thing that matters if the wound and the agony emitting from it.

"_I got you, Roach_!"

Keeping his promise? You didn't think it was possible. You want to thank him, you want to say something but it just fucking hurts. That power surge of pain. You grip your gun and fire at Makarov's men. You kid yourself that the more you kill, the less it'll hurt. You can kind of hear Ghost talking and shouting. You're pretty sure that he's not talking to you, but you can hear your name occasionally. He's willing you to stay conscious, but you're fading in and out of it. Those blackouts where the pain fades for a moment and then gets brought right back. Ghost smokes the tree line and you turn to see Shepherd's chopper. You made it to the LZ. You hope there's someone with morphine in there. Shepherd steps out of the chopper, and for some reason you can concentrate more. His pistol is at his side like it normally would be, but something seems off. You've probably got a fucking concussion on top of everything else. But you're painfully aware of Ghost's arm around you. And you're painfully aware of the fact that the beer or dinner or whatever little date you had planning is probably about to go to hell.

Then for some reason, you can't help but wonder how Shepherd must have felt, knowing that he could stop the Zakhaev International Airport Massacre. To you and Ghost, both of you can see him as a bit of a mass-murderer.

That horrendous agony seizes you again. Ghost has got you. He said he wouldn't let anything happen to you, and he didn't. He was right at your side when the mortar hit. He could have grabbed the DSM and ran to the chopper instead of risking dragging you along with him. Maybe it's just because you're both in the 141 together. Maybe he feels bad for you. Or maybe you're friends.

You wonder how Price and Soap are doing over at their end.

"Got the DSM?" Shepherd asks, leaning in towards you.

His hand is on your shoulder, like he cares what happens to you.

Shepherd lost 30,000 men five years ago. Shepherd allowed a massacre to go on unchecked. Shepherd let the war start, and you know it. Shepherd knows you know it.

There's something about that one bullet, because the pain from the mortar stops hurting. You look at Shepherd's pistol. He looks at the DSM. One bullet for one man. Time slows again, it's horrifically slow. You look into his eyes and you know exactly what he has to do but you're too incoherent to do anything about it. You want to tell Ghost to run. You want to go back in time and do something about it. You knew that getting Makarov's safe house was a bad idea.

Ghost said he wouldn't let anything happen to you.

You try to catch his eye behind those reflective glasses, but you can't. Ghost confirms that yes, you do in fact have the DSM. He should have said no. Where the hell is your sniper support? Did Shadow Company get them too? You hope not. You can't have more guys go down because of you. But you hang onto that tiny thread of hope that the snipers might just back you up. You hang onto that tiny thread of hope that Ghost knows what to do. He's survived some shit; surely he can survive this, right?

"Good. No more loose ends."

His bullet tears right through your stomach. It doesn't hurt. Why would it? The mortar wound stopped hurting the second Shepherd's hand touched your shoulder.

"_NO!"_ Screams Ghost, frantically grabbing at his rifle and trying to get a shot at Shepherd. No way. The General's bullet tears through him, too. You watch him fall to the ground, bloodied and unmoving. Out of everything you've lost, this is the worst. Ghost was the only one who could really get you to talk. Sure, you'd make the occasional grunt or 'copy that' when you had to, but Ghost was the only one who really knew you.

You slip out of consciousness again with your head throbbing in pain.

When you open your eyes again, two soldiers of Shadow Company drop you to the ground and you roll over, pain shooting through every single wound. They throw Ghost in next to you, and his head lolls to face you. You wonder if those soldiers would be so willing to throw you about like a corpse if they knew the sacrifices that the 141 had made for Shepherd. You wonder if Shepherd would have spared your life if you didn't know that the massacre wasn't stopped because of him.

Gasoline seeps into your wounds. They're splashing fucking _fuel_ on you. More of it goes on you than on Ghost, and you really wish that you could die some other way. Even being shot to pieces by the militia. Caught by a Russian dog with Price. Not being set on fire by one of your own, with your best friend lying dead next to you. No. Not dead. You hope to _God_ that he's not dead. He'll get you out of this, he _said_ that he wouldn't let anything happen to you. Where the hell are the snipers?

Shepherd tosses his cigar, and you look up at him through the flames. It burns through your clothes, but all you can see is him walking away. How can he do this? How can he kill even more people?

Even though your skin is raw and burning, you turn to look at Ghost. You can't tell if he's alive or dead. You hope for the former. God, it hurts so _fucking_ much but all you care about is that he's alive. He _has_ to be, right?

You can feel yourself slipping out of consciousness. Unless someone does something _very soon_, you're fucked. Done for. Screwed. _Dead_.

You use the last bit of your strength to reach out and loosely grab Ghost's hand. You can't feel a pulse through all the damn layers.

"_Help_." You whisper, your voice cracking in pain. "_Ghost!"_

You start fading again. You're losing consciousness again. If you fall asleep now, you're not waking up. Maybe that's for the best. Do you really want to live in a world where a US General will slaughter special forces soldiers in cold blood and where your friends are gunned down before your eyes?

No, no you don't.

But you want to live in a world where all that shit's over and done with and you can sit down to have a beer with your best friend.

But when you close your eyes, you know that's not going to happen.


End file.
